


The End Of December

by jambal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, I have my eye on a little cottage in the South Downs with more chapters, John is contemplative and Mary leaves for plot reasons, M/M, Sherlock's tactless. John is angry. Mary is there, So it's basically canon, This is what happens when I excessively and aggressively listen to Leonard Cohen, not explicit, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:19:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jambal/pseuds/jambal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to my wonderful beta, whywouldIwanttohavedinner (Line).</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, whywouldIwanttohavedinner (Line).

 

"Talk to me," she says. 

  
He is standing by the fireplace and hasn't spoken since they entered the room.   
  
He can't speak, let alone indulge her.   
  
He feels a chill ghost over him, as he stands.   
  
He is still wearing his coat, but discarded his scarf upon entering.   
  
He would have kept it on if it was any other night.   
  
He would have burrowed his face into it. He would have wrapped it tighter around his neck.   
  
But since the restaurant it had felt like a noose.   
  
He felt completely confined by it; like it was choking him.   
  
As they entered the flat he panicked and soon he was shaking as he struggled to take it off.   
  
His fingers fell from the soft cotton and then the blue fabric fell to the floor and pooled at her feet.   
  
He looks at her now; her face is flushed from the walk home and her eyes are boring into him.   
  
He cannot stand her in this moment.   
  
He wants to run; push past her; make her leave.  
  
He shakes his head and his mind tumbles from its reverie and joins the scarf on the floor.   
  
Both are discarded and useless to him. Both are alien to him.   
  
They're too much; the choking feeling and the memories that he can never forget, but only alter.  
  
He has changed memories to match his regrets and they were never a hinderance, until now.   
  
Now they feel like a secret; they feel like a betrayal.  
  
"John," she says, softly.  
  
He winces, before stopping himself from emitting an utterance he will regret.  
  
She steps closer to him.   
  
He watches.  
  
The heel of her left foot presses down on the scarf.   
  
She moves into his space and places a hand on his arm; thinking that she can shake him from his thoughts, she smiles.  
  
He stares at the scarf as it diminishes pathetically on the floor.  
  
He is overcome with sadness.  
  
Everything he thought he had lost returned in one moment, and just as suddenly, the things he currently has pale in comparison.  
  
Everything he gained and held dear for two years grow fainter, soon to be obliterated by one force.   
  
One force so strong that it can be forgiven, soon after one punch.   
  
One moment of anger, compensating for two years of anguish.  
  
This almost makes him smile.  
  
It's utterly ridiculous.   
  
Yet, anything on the contrary seems inconceivable.  
  
"I think," she starts. "I think you need to sleep on this."  
  
He looks at her again and frowns.   
  
She is being accommodating. She is being rational and it irks him.  
  
He doesn't want her to understand. He doesn't even understand it. He wants to be alone. The one thing she saved him from and she refuses to partake in it.   
  
She refuses to be the one to make him feel lonely.  
  
He does care for her. But he's now thinking in a way that he hasn't for two years. If she really knew who he was or what he needs right now she would not be suggesting sleep. She certainly would not insinuate that it is her that he needs. If she really knew the John Watson that only ever lived two years prior, she would leave.  
  
He panics.  
  
A small part of him does not want her to leave. He's still understanding this. It can still be taken from him. He needs to be assured that he will never be abandoned by him again.   
  
"I think what I need is to be alone," he says, opening his eyes to her gaze and conceding to himself.  
  
She appears to be thinking before she speaks.  
  
He thinks she's deciding something.   
  
"That's alright," she smiles. "I can go and I'll call round tomorrow."  
  
He forces a smile and she presses her lips to his.  
  
He continues to smile as she leaves the room; it fades as he hears her footsteps disappear down the hall.  
  
Now he can breathe.  
  
He can think.  
  
 _He's alive._  
  
He didn't think they would meet again in this lifetime. And now all he thought has been obliterated.   
  
 _Sherlock is alive._  
  
He holds his breath and allows his lungs to fill with air until he gasps for a breath.  
  
He moves towards the sofa and falls into it; relaxing into its familiarity.   
  
He runs his hands over his face and rests them on his lap.

 

He looks at the broken skin on his right hand and inhales a sharp breath. 

Then something unfamiliar happens.

Something that hasn't been his reality for a long while.

He cries.

He allows the tears to fall and he despairs at the subsequent congested feeling.

The thought creates a smile.

_Did Sherlock think the same, as he stood on the rooftop?_

His smile fades.

Was that part of the act?

_Come one! Come all!_  
See the magnificent Sherlock Holmes in this amazing spectacle!  
Whom will he fool next?

He shakes his head.

"Fucker," he sighs.

Did he mean anything to him?

He missed him.

What had he said?

_But I'm back now._

He laughs; the sound is unusual.

He thinks about Mary's face. He had never seen her look so terrified.

Perhaps she knows?

Did she see the imperceptible change in him?

Of course  _she_  didn't.

But he did.

Their eyes met and Sherlock saw everything he needed.

He found his ammunition. 

He catalogued his window of opportunity. 

All in the form of Mary.

So Sherlock broke their gaze and turned to smile at Mary; a rare smile. 

One John has only seen a handful of times.

His heart began to beat faster.

Mary was polite and under Sherlock's complete attention.

_Nobody could be that clever._

_You could._

Mary left quite animated, for John's sake, but upon noticing his silence she didn't speak until they entered the living room.

_This is all very nice, John._

He didn't have the energy to get angry again. 

He shrugged off Sherlock's grasp of his shoulder and he walked away.

Even as he ignored Sherlock's blatant attempt at provoking a reaction he knew it wouldn't be forever; this hurricane would settle.

He feels more alive having had that interaction.

The rush. The fear. The single-minded devotion. 

He has allowed Sherlock back into his life. 

Only, this time, he will actively keep him fixed.

He breathes rapidly.

A fleeting thought drifts into his mind and it startles him.

He knows that he cannot lose Sherlock again. 

But what will be sacrificed?

What will he lose when he goes back to him?

He smiles.

_When_

He stands upright and stretches out his shoulder. 

He has already made the decision.

One that will shock those closest to him.

Everyone but Sherlock.

_What does it matter? I'm here now._

How can he even contemplate returning to that?

To a man who sees no moral ambiguity in faking his own suicide and returning two years later; a man who absolutely cannot comprehend why someone would move on.

Does he really want to go back to that?

He is content now.

That's what he has repeated over and over again, to those that have asked.

_I'm content._

Content but not happy.

When was he last happy?

The morning before Moriarty's return. 

They had just finished breakfast. The flat was silent. They had tea. He was freshly showered and Sherlock was peaceful while he worked.

He was happy that morning.

And in an almost instant everything came crashing down.

The subsequent weeks morphed into one, very, bad time.

That must have been it.

Is he happy now?

He smiles.

_Bloody far from it._

But he's something foreign; 

He's hopeful.

The old favourites are still there; the anxiety; the fear; the resentment.

But he's hopeful in the knowledge that he'll face the future with Sherlock by his side.

He pauses.

He gazes out of the window; he only sees his reflection in the glass, he tries to cypher something from outside but the darkness swells around the street.

He isn't certain...

He isn't certain that Sherlock will stay...

Sherlock said that London had changed; he looked distant as he spoke, before he remembered John's presence.

He sighs and looks at his watch.

_It's four in the morning.  
The end of December._

That's it...

_The end of December._

A pivotal time. A time for change. The end of one chapter.

It encourages you to go on. It prepares you for whatever the future is planning.

The universe is close to one year older.

Everything is older.

Everything beats on.

No time for rest.

_You made it!_

Three sharp knocks startle him from his train of thought.

He hesitates before walking out of the room and continuing down the hall.

He opens the door and finds that he is almost unperturbed by what he sees.

He inhales and steadies himself before turning on his heel and walking back down the hall, leaving the door open behind him.

Sherlock steps into the hallway from the cold. He wraps his coat tightly around himself and follows John, wordlessly, into the living room.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Line.

Imagine an evening in late December.  
  
Windows in the streets are embers from a fire.   
  
It's quiet as a few people make their way home.  
  
In a city that adopts outsiders and cherishes them as if they are its own.  
  
It's cold but the people are acclimatised to it and they relish the sensation of stepping inside to the warmth and leaving the cold, to partake in something altogether more wonderful.  
  
Behind every window is life and it beats on, in a golden hue, underneath the stars.  
  
Sherlock stands in the doorway, watching him.  
  
He watches as Sherlock bends down and picks the scarf from the floor. The blue fabric spills between his fingers in a familiar way.   
  
Sherlock blinks at the blue, cotton garment and traces where it is most worn, and almost frayed, with his fingers.   
  
He is staring at him.  
  
Sherlock looks to the scarf again and then back to him.   
  
His gaze follows Sherlock, carefully.  
  
Sherlock wordlessly holds the scarf out to him.  
  
He steps forward a few paces and takes the scarf from Sherlock's hands and folds it carefully.   
  
He places it on the mantel.  
  
He turns and almost smiles.  
  
"Cuppa?" He asks.  
  
Sherlock stares at him and nods once, before looking away to the window.   
  
He leaves the room and is alone again.  
  
He closes his eyes and opens them slowly with a ragged breath.  
  
He walks towards the kitchen.   
  
 _Alone is what he has.  
  
Alone is what he had._  
  
He takes two mugs from the cupboard and goes to the fridge to retrieve the milk.  
  
The motions are familiar and they are done with a practiced ease that he thought he had forgotten.   
  
He pours the milk into the two mugs and falters, slightly, when he hears movement behind him.  
  
The kettle boils noisily in the background.  
  
He thinks about the next moment. It all rests on this next moment.   
  
The kettle's growing growl fades to the sky until there is only Sherlock.  
  
There has always only been Sherlock.  
  
He feels all of his senses home in on this moment.  
  
He stands by the kettle.  
  
There's a movement incredibly sparse about him.   
  
It's his breathing and it creates subtle waves down his back.  
  
He could drown in him.  
  
He already has.  
  
He submerged himself in Sherlock Holmes and gasped for breath; only for his lungs to be filled with more of this human in liquid form.  
  
He choked.  
  
He collapsed and his limbs stilled as his body shut down.  
  
The kettle clicks off and he focuses his eyes; he turns around.  
  
Sherlock is facing him with wide eyes.  
  
The kitchen is incredibly still.  
  
Everything is still and different.  
  
His gaze flickers, scantily, around the room.  
  
What is he doing?  
  
Two years.   
  
Two, short years.  
  
Two years, in the grand scheme of things, is not a long time.  
  
It's rather short, actually.  
  
Except, it was a long time, to him.  
  
Grief does that to time.   
  
Grief morphs time.   
  
Grief prolongs anguish.  
  
Perhaps two years, when you're grieving, is much longer?  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
His eyes focus, again.   
  
"John?" Sherlock says.  
  
His features soften into a sigh.  
  
He places a hand on Sherlock's arm.  
  
It feels strange. It's unfamiliar.   
  
Sherlock looks to where they are joined and stills.  
  
He pulls his hand away.  
  
It should not be this difficult.  
  
Sherlock is back and things are not better.   
  
Sherlock is back, and his doing so has not fixed everything.  
  
He fleetingly thinks about the kettle.  
  
It continues to simmer.  
  
Steam still laps over the spout.  
  
He watches Sherlock touch his nose. He almost smiles as Sherlock's features contort between confusion, pain and resignation.  
  
It's cleaned up, somewhat. But he is sure that there is a dull ache, which resides.  
  
He was so angry.   
  
Angry enough to hurt him.  
  
"Sorry about that," he says, suddenly.  
  
His own voice shatters his thoughts.  
  
"It's quite alright," Sherlock says. "I rather think I deserved it."  
  
"You did," he nods. "But I'm sorry, nonetheless."  
  
Silence stretches on and neither move.  
  
"It wasn't the best welcome," Sherlock sighs. "After two years."  
  
He continues to stare.  
  
He's not going to hit him again.   
  
He's not.   
  
He's thinking about it.   
  
But what good will that do?   
  
 _It was only two years, John.  
  
Don't cry about it.   
  
Don't be so inconsiderate.   
  
You should be grateful._    
  
He sighs and composes himself.  
  
"Two years, Sherlock," he breathes. "Why two years?"  
  
His eyes are resolute.   
  
This is important.   
  
 _Don't bugger this up, for Christ's sake.  
  
You can be sincere for a bloody second, you insufferable man._    
  
"I wanted to contact you," Sherlock says.  
  
"Brilliant," he says. "I'm glad you thought about it."  
  
It wasn't supposed to be like this.  
  
"I'm back now," Sherlock frowns.  
  
He releases a sharp burst of laughter which sears the air between them.  
  
"Yes," he says. "I heard you in the restaurant."  
  
He looks around the kitchen; it feels small.   
  
It's quite dark, too.   
  
They're standing close so it's not as apparent.   
  
But if they were to create some distance, it would be a challenge to make the other out.   
  
There's a dull light down the hall.  
  
"Please tell me you understand," he sighs.  
  
"I understand," Sherlock replies, instantly.  
  
"Funny," he smiles, but it fades.  
  
"I don't know why I'm here," Sherlock says, quite matter-of-fact. "I suppose I thought it was in the vein of appropriate etiquette."  
  
He smiles and the force of it almost makes Sherlock step back.  
  
"Since when did appropriate etiquette ever concern you?" he asks. "It's gone midnight, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock stares, clearly puzzled.  
  
"It is past midnight and you have popped round for the sake of decorum?" he asks, softly.  
  
"I'll be frank, shall I?" Sherlock asks, wide-eyed.  
  
He nods, just about perceptible in the gloom.  
  
"I have no where else," Sherlock says.  
  
Silence expels like a hurricane.  
  
"Sherlock," he begins.  
  
"John," Sherlock interrupts. "No one else."  
  
He moves closer.  
  
It's different.   
  
It's like ice-cold water.  
  
He places a hand on Sherlock's arm and moving past him, he leaves the kitchen and makes his way down the hall.  
  
He walks slowly. His right hand brushes the wall. It steadies him.  
  
He stands in the living room and stares absently.  
  
He feels anger rise in his throat.  
  
He swallows.  
  
Steam rising and rising and the liquid cooling.  
  
Liquid going sour.  
  
Pouring sickly down the sink.  
  
The whiskey that he pours is transcendent in the comfortable glow of the room.  
  
He closes his eyes and stretches his shoulder.   
  
He walks to the sofa.   
  
He waits.  
  
Sherlock appears in the doorway.  
  
His fingers have gone white at their tips, where he clutches helplessly to the glass.  
  
Sherlock looks towards the mantel; a glass with almost three fingers of whiskey sits, like liquid gold, beside the scarf.  
  
Sherlock moves towards the fireplace and takes the glass in his right hand.   
  
He looks to his own hand.   
  
The glass is cool but the clamminess of his hand is sure to warm the liquid inside.  
  
Sherlock takes a breath, before turning to face him.  
  
A song, that is melancholy, fades to nothing as they stare at each other.  
  
He sips from his glass, before clearing his throat.  
  
"I have someone," he begins. "I do, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock nods once, before taking a sobering step forward.  
  
"For a long time I didn't," he continues. "For quite some time I was alone. It takes a lot out of you, losing someone you-"  
  
Sherlock takes another step forward.  
  
"She was there when I needed someone."  
  
Sherlock places his glass on the coffee table.  
  
"Anyone."  
  
He takes a breath.  
  
Sherlock takes the glass from his trembling hands.  
  
Their fingers touch and he is startled from his thoughts by the foreign contact.  
  
Sherlock stares down at him.  
  
"Sherlock," he warns.  
  
"She loves you," Sherlock says, blandly.  
  
He nods.  
  
"And you love her," Sherlock says, his voice serious.  
  
He stares up at him.  
  
"I did not come here with an ulterior motive," Sherlock continues. "I did not lurk and wait for her to leave, if that's what you're thinking?"  
  
He frowns and there are thoughts and anger flickering in his gaze.  
  
Sherlock steps back and releases a breath.  
  
He stands, walks around the coffee table, and faces Sherlock.  
  
"I did not think that," he says.   
  
 _Blaming and resigning. Blaming and resigning._  
  
For an eternity.  
  
"I wonder where this leaves us?" Sherlock says.  
  
He stares, absently noting the music in the background.   
  
His eyes flutter closed and open to the sound of Sherlock's voice.  
  
"My Boswell," Sherlock sighs.  
  
He winces imperceptibly, but not imperceptible to the most observant man in the country.  
  
"Was I wrong?" Sherlock asks.  
  
He frowns and then softens his expression before answering, "I'll need some context."  
  
"In thinking that I could return to this life, with you, unscathed?" Sherlock says.  
  
He nods minutely.  
  
The silence that follows is one that resonates in them both.  
  
It's comfortable, but weighted.  
  
It's perhaps a shift.   
  
One of those momentary shifts that says everything without anything being said at all.  
  
"Just the two of us against the rest of the world," Sherlock says.  
  
"We were," he says.  
  
"Quite," Sherlock breathes.  
  
Silence spends itself around them.  
  
"Sherlock," he starts. "Take off your coat and pretend that you're staying."  
  
"I'm quite good at pretending," Sherlock says.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," he sighs.  
  
"Not good?" Sherlock asks, genuinely, in a familiar way.  
  
 _It seems genuine_.  
  
He's not sure and his head is swimming.  
  
 _Seems._  
  
"A bit, yeah," he says, shaking his head. "You can stay on the sofa."   
  
Sherlock nods, before turning and walking towards the mantel.  
  
Everything, against the soft haze of morning, appears more achievable.  
  
Sherlock takes the scarf and wraps it tightly around his hand.  
  
 _Appears._  
  
The fabric unfurls delicately from Sherlock's wrist and falls to the floor.   
  
 _How can it not?_  
  
He watches, transfixed.  
  
He asked for this miracle and he's still angry.  
  
He feels as though he has been here before.   
  
The laborious task of forgiving seems impossible as the coldness of night spreads throughout their golden bubble of denial.  
  
He has watched this exact moment, over and over again, against a continuum of experience and pleasure.   
  
It almost takes his breath.   
  
Almost, but not quite.   
  
 _There's still work to do._    
  
He turns and leaves Sherlock, alone, in the golden abyss.


End file.
